But the heart and the mind, Shall arise in communion And who shall resist that proud union? Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. FAREWELL to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me, Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were wonThen the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun! Farewell to thee, France!--but when Liberty rallies There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us, Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice! LAMENT OF TASSO. LONG years!-It tries the thrilling frame to bear Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, And tasteless food, which I have eat alone Till its unsocial bitterness is gone; And I can banquet like a beast of prey, Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave Which is my lair, and—it may be my grave. For he hath strengthen'd me in heart and limb. That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, I have employ'd my penance to record How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. But this is o'er—my pleasant task is done :— Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. DANTE IN EXILE. (PROPHECY OF DANTE, Canto i.) ALAS! with what a weight upon my brow The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack, And the frail few years I may yet expect On the lone rock of desolate Despair To lift my eyes more to the passing sail Nor raise my voice-for who would heed my wail? And yet my harpings will unfold a tale Which shall preserve these times when not a page An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, To live in narrow ways with little men, Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things Without the power that makes them bear a crown— To envy every dove his nest and wings Which waft him where the Apennine looks down On Arno, till he perches, it may be, Within my all inexorable town, Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she, Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought And feel, and know without repair, hath taught |